


Gluttony as a Form of Self-Care

by ckret2



Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Body Image, Cannibalism, Character Study, Feeding, Gen, Gluttony, Malnutrition, Weight Gain, brief appearance by Rosie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:01:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26571871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ckret2/pseuds/ckret2
Summary: When Alastor died, he was a spindly, half-starved thing, and burning off what little energy he had left to use his new postmortem powers. He immediately started devouring as much as he could to build his strength back up.And then he never stopped devouring.He couldn't be happier.
Comments: 9
Kudos: 85





	Gluttony as a Form of Self-Care

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for [@ChonkWeek](https://twitter.com/ChonkWeek/status/1307689379771461632) on twitter, an art week devoted to Chonkastor (chunky/fat Alastor), hosted by [@Jagged_Bailey](https://twitter.com/Jagged_Bailey) who kicked all this off by drawing a whole bunch of wonderful Chonkastor fanart.
> 
> I seriously adore all of the Chonkastor art that's been coming out, so I've been wanting to write a fic as a "thank you" from a fan for months, and then ChonkWeek came around and I had a perfect opportunity... and I got too busy this week to finish a fic on time lmao. So here it is a day late!
> 
> This is sort of a fusion of three of the prompts, Day 1 "Greetings" + Day 5 "Free Day" + Day 7 "Feast", and inspired by Jagged_Bailey's [tweet](https://twitter.com/Jagged_Bailey/status/1282364311914950657?s=20) about how we got from thin-as-a-post Alastor to Chonkastor.

Alastor wasn't surprised to die.

His life was a candle and not only had he been burning it at both ends for years, he'd started shaving wax off the sides to get at the wick in the middle and start fraying it. The bullet through his brain was just the physical manifestation of the wick at his core fraying apart, his entire life burning up under the matches in his own hands.

When he landed in Hell—hungry, frayed, burning—he made everyone he found burn with him.

And when the blazing haze of bloodlust cleared from his mind, he wandered in a daze through the streets until he passed the outer perimeter of his carnage, stumbled through the door of the first restaurant with lights on he spotted, and demanded to know what they were serving.

###

"Cheesesteak is fine." Alastor didn't know how one put cheese on a steak, but he was picturing a mountain of melted mozzarella oozing over a nearly-raw red ribeye. His throat was dry and his voice was thin and crackly, but his mouth started salivating. "Give me two."

Instead of confirming Alastor's order, the imp behind the counter asked, "Did you come from _there?_ " He nodded in the direction of the carnage. Most of the other customers in the restaurant—many of whom seemed to be huddling for safety at their tables rather than engaged in dining—glanced nervously in the same direction. A radio behind the counter played a news broadcast, the broadcaster's voice harried and unprofessional as he described the recent devastation.

Alastor nodded. His vision swam; he was dizzy with exhaustion and hunger. The massacre and the broadcast—a broadcast from _him_ , as though _he himself_ was a radio tower, god, he was too lightheaded to glory in it properly—it had drained him completely; he felt like he did when he stayed up a day and a half straight because he'd skipped sleep in favor of squeezing a murder in between two work shifts, and on top of that like he hadn't eaten the whole time.

"You got money?" the imp asked.

Of course he didn't—he'd only just landed in Hell buck naked, he'd been lucky to find clothing at all. "No."

"Then get out," the imp snapped. "This ain't a refugee camp. You can't hide from that radio demon here unless you're a paying customer."

Undeterred, Alastor stepped out of the doorway, walking unsteadily toward the front counter. As he approached, the news broadcast cut out with a squeal of feedback and static. Half the restaurant flinched. The imp jerked around to stare at the radio, then looked back at Alastor in trepidation.

When Alastor spoke again, his thin voice was stronger—because it was coming out of the radio. "Two cheesesteaks."

"You got it," the imp squeaked.

Alastor hadn't expected sandwiches. But they were swimming in grease and reeked of onions and Alastor was practically drooling before he even tasted them. The molten provolone burned the roof of his mouth, the grease ran down his chin, and it was the most exquisitely delicious thing he'd ever tasted in his life. His teeth were all wrong now; he quickly found out that he couldn't chew his food anymore, just awkwardly chop it up with his back fangs (and risk piercing his tongue with every chop), so he switched to ripping chunks off the sandwich a bite at a time and swallowing them whole. He ate like this was the first meal he'd had in a week.

When he'd finished both sandwiches—when his ribs still ached with hunger pains because despite the new lump in his previously-concave stomach, he'd eaten faster than his stomach could tell his brain it was now full—he croaked, "Water." The imp tripped over his own tail to get Alastor a glass. Alastor guzzled half of it, coughed static, guzzled the rest, too desperately thirsty to care how the water escaped the corners of his mouth; whatever, it would clean some of the grease. And then, at last, he leaned forward with a groan that a dozen disembodied voices echoed, elbows on the table and head in his hands.

For a few moments—heart still pounding with the thrill of massacre, radio waves dancing tantalizingly over his skin like a tangible force, as the pain of hunger faded and before the pain of overeating set in—he realized he couldn't remember how many months it had been since he'd felt this good.

###

No, Alastor wasn't surprised to die. He'd been burning, slicing, and fraying himself toward his death for years.

He was the most popular broadcasting personality south of the Mason-Dixon line, but it was because he was doing two jobs at once—of course, on one person's pay. On the clock, he spent eight hours a day behind a microphone, four in the evening and four in the morning; and then off the clock, he spent all night prowling the streets and speakeasies of New Orleans, looking for quirky characters and remarkable bands to invite into his studio for a song or an interview. Any other broadcaster on Alastor's level would have their talent supplied to them and need only concern themselves with the broadcast; Alastor suspected he was only on his level _because_ he put in the extra work to find own talent. And no matter how hard he worked, he feared he wouldn't be allowed to climb any higher than that.

He was the most prolific demonic bargainer alive who hadn't sold his own soul—but when a human wasn't willing to bargain with his soul, the demons charged high prices for their services. Alastor had felt his altar at home grow cold and empty when he'd chosen the cheap, quick, impersonal transactions the demons offered over the intimate service needed to maintain relationships with the loa; and ever since his first "hunting trip," he couldn't bring himself to call on the ancestors he'd relied on since childhood, too ashamed to face their judgment and too afraid that they would disown him if he tried. And now, without the other avenues of supernatural assistance he'd been buoyed by his whole life, he had no choice but to essentially take on a third job paying off his demonic debts on top of the two he did for radio: dirty, soul-draining, vicious jobs to further the demons' objectives in the living realm.

He had once used his "hunting" hobby to expel his built-up stress all in one fatal shot—but now it was a source of stress itself. The more fatigued and overwhelmed he was, the more murder was like an addiction, demanding he feed it constantly, driving him to exhaustion as he skipped more and more sleep to go out with bleary eyes and rifle clenched in shaking hands to seek out another victim.

He was feeding his addiction better than he was feeding himself.

His appetite came and went. When he did have an appetite, half the time he felt like he didn't have time to eat. Too much of his diet consisted of coffee and whiskey. He'd get insubstantial bar food at three in the morning and realize it had been eighteen hours since he'd had toast and a hastily-fried egg.

And putting off eating almost seemed grimly virtuous, a service to his neighbors who had even less than he, what with the Depression—even though he wasn't as bad off as some, the grocery bill seemed to take up a larger portion of his wages each trip. And everyone he knew was tightening their belts. It was easy not to notice that he'd tightened his a notch further than most until someone who hadn't seen him in a while noted his baggy suit or his mother fretted over his gaunt face. He was almost skeletal when he arrived in Hell.

He was drained, frail, exhausted all the time. He had new abilities the likes of which most demons could only dream of, and through them he could force out enough power to level city blocks, but the energy came from him. He could call on the souls in thrall to him, but that didn't stop the effort from draining everything from him he had to give. But he no longer had a day job. He no longer had bills to pay, people to impress, appointments to keep. His appetite came roaring back.

So he started replenishing all the parts of himself he'd burned off. Voraciously.

###

"You're that _radio_ demon, aren't you?"

Alastor looked over at the woman who'd addressed him—he was already used to that question being asked with barely-suppressed terror, not asked as though the realization was a pleasant surprise. "Alastor to my friends," he said, "and I count anyone a friend who's got courage enough to call me by my name!" He smiled as he spoke. He always smiled now. Being in Hell was hellish; the easiest way to get through each day, he'd found, was to mask up with a smile on the outside and try to numb himself on the inside. "And you are?"

Empty-eyed, fanged, and dressed as though she'd died about the time Alastor was born, she looked at a glance like any of the lesser-mutated sinners; but Alastor could tell at a glance that she was one of the native Hell-born demons. An overlord whose face he recognized on sight , but didn't know any better than that. Was she here to avenge the overlords he'd ravaged when he'd arrived?

If so, she'd chosen to look perfectly genial about it. "Rosie," she said, curtsying. "What a pleasure to finally meet you."

"The pleasure's all mine, I'm sure!" He half bowed, stopping short of completing gesture as his waist band dug into his waist. The clothing he'd stolen when he first arrived in Hell had been getting tight over the past few weeks—sleeves pinching around his armpit and elbows, pants squeezing his thighs uncomfortably, shirt fabric puckering slightly around his buttons—and even more after he'd eaten. It was a good sign. When he'd arrived, he'd looked and felt like a walking corpse. (Technically, he supposed he _was_ a walking corpse.) He was getting his health back. He was going to miss this coat, though.

"If you'll forgive my prying," Rosie said, "but I'm such an admirer of your work—I'd noticed one of your quirks..." She trailed off there, clearly waiting for his clearance to continue.

Something about her demeanor made him think that when she said she admired his work, she wasn't speaking like a fan toward a performer, but like a master artisan toward a promising amateur. "Oh?" he said mildly.

"Quite a few of your victims have been gutted," she said mildly. "And very professionally. I take it you're a big game hunter?"

"Back when I had big game to hunt," he said, laughing wryly—there weren't many creatures worth hunting in Hell.

He'd had two preferred targets in life: deer, which he would field dress, take home, and consume; and humans, which he would leave untouched where they fell, unwilling to manipulate the corpses for fear that lingering at his kill site longer than he had to would just increase the possibility of someone catching him in the act. The murder was what mattered, after all. Anything else was a luxury he couldn't afford.

He _could_ afford those luxuries in Hell. There was no subtlety or secrecy to who he was anymore. What did it matter if somebody caught him slicing open a sobbing sinner's abdomen to pull out their entrails? They knew not to mess with the man who made radio sounds.

Part of the reason he'd killed so often—and, closer to his death, _more and more_ often—was, he supposed, because he felt on some level like he wasn't finished. Like there was something _more_. Something he needed to be doing but wasn't. It wasn't until he was dead and free to go as far as he wanted that he'd realized perhaps there really _was_ a next step he hadn't been free to pursue when he'd had to worry about getting caught. And so, experimentally, he'd started taking up the next logical step in treating a human like a big game animal—field dressing a victim, slicing them open to remove their entrails—to see how he liked it.

It felt _right_. But it still felt like he wasn't finished.

Of all the things the public knew about him, that was an oddly tiny one to latch onto, compared to the far more spectacular horrors he'd committed over the past few months. It was the one thing he'd done most personal to _him_. What did it mean to _her?_

He suspected that Rosie was about to offer him something. He felt that it was going to be that next step he was missing.

"I run a little community for sinners with—particular tastes," Rosie said. "We're a very tightly-knit group, but I'm always looking for new arrivals to join our little family, and I naturally wondered whether _you_ share our tastes."

She didn't have to say what kind of tastes. He knew automatically.

Something in his brain recoiled in natural human shock; but he wasn't surprised. (Maybe that was the numbness to being in Hell.) Something in his stomach roared in hunger, as if it had been waiting years to be fed. 

Slowly, he said, "Well, I can't say I've ever... tried out tastes like yours before."

"Have you ever thought about it?" There was an edge to her voice that Alastor thought must not have been much different from Lucifer's when he asked if Eve had ever wondered what apples taste like.

Consciously, no, he couldn't say he'd ever considered it. But the _thought_ of it felt like the answer to a nameless frustrated question he'd been posing to himself since he was a child. His mouth watered at the thought. His teeth ran around the inside of his deadly fangs as if he was just figuring out what they were for. Despite how tight his clothing already was, he felt like his stomach was caving in on itself with hunger. He said slowly, "I'd be willing to give it a try."

Rosie's grin widened hungrily. "I'd be happy to have you over for dinner."

Alastor decided to interpret her invitation the non-threatening way.

The meal Rosie served was, in terms of flavor, closer to roasted ham than anything else. Ham was far from Alastor's favorite meat; but he devoured it ravenously anyway. He requested second and then third servings of the meat without having finished one serving of the vegetable sides. It was the sweetest thing he'd ever tasted.

Every high he'd ever chased when he pointed a gun at a man's head—here it was. Here was the pinnacle, the part that he'd been missing.

Rosie was happy to welcome Alastor to her little community. Alastor was happy to be welcomed.

###

While Alastor grieved finding himself in the fiery pits of Hell rather than the dark waters past the gates of Guinee (because despite his estrangement from the loa, he'd still _hoped_ ), he ate to numb the pain. Devouring mindlessly, hardly tasting the food, binging until his stomach hurt and then not eating for days because he was already dead and it already hurt, so why bother?

And then, when the grief faded and it slowly dawned on Alastor that he'd gotten the exact retirement he'd spent the last decade of his life paying the demons for—unlimited sin, unlimited power, unlimited freedom—the ability to broadcast anything he wanted 24/7 without groveling to management or pandering to advertisers, the opportunities to effortlessly hunt as he pleased, the liberty to be both radio host and hunter at once—even cannibalism, _even cannibalism_ was available to him now—he gorged in celebration.

Every restaurant in Hell held its doors open for the man whose idea of introducing himself to the neighborhood was to burn half of it down and shoot the homeowner's association. Reservations were graciously canceled to seat him immediately. Lunch rush lines vanished when he stepped into a diner. Checks never came.

In life, even at his most popular, he had never been treated with such deference.

And if you couldn't shamelessly and ruthlessly take advantage of people's terror of you in Hell, then by god, where could you?

###

Word was getting around that it was dangerous to throw public potlucks in Hell these days; they tended to attract the attention of the Radio Demon.

Word was also getting around—but much more slowly—that potlucks were just about the only place where it was safe to run into the Radio Demon.

Apparently word hadn't reached _this_ crowd, if the terrified faces turned toward him in the doorway were anything to go by.

"What?" Alastor asked cheekily. "The ad in the paper said everyone's welcome." (The ad in the paper had also said one dollar cover at the door—the potluck was being thrown by a friendly little neighborhood street gang running a fundraiser for their very first black market angel spear—but Alastor's fee had been politely waived by a man who'd gone pale at the sound of static beneath Alastor's humming.) "'Everyone' does include _me_ , **doesn't it**?"

The speakers playing music for the event hissed as they were commandeered to project Alastor's last two words. A collective flinch of fear rippled through the crowd. Someone nearby murmured permission for Alastor to stay.

"Wonderful!" Alastor hefted a pot up. "I brought a side dish, where should I put it?"

And then, with his pot of okra and tomatoes set between some boring-looking mashed potatoes and a salad impressively suspended in gelatin, he eagerly looked around for the fresh plates.

In another life, Alastor should have been damned for gluttony. Since he'd been a preteen, he and his mother had been going to family get-togethers and neighborhood potlucks with two dishes, one cooked by her and one by him. Before he was an adult, he'd started doing the family shopping for fun. When his peers had been spending their leisure time seeking spouses or attending petting parties, he'd been spending it devouring new recipes and pouring his meager disposable cash into new ingredients to try them out—a lust just as strong as his peers' but focused in an entirely different part of his anatomy.

By all rights, if he'd been a little bit richer, a little less ambitious, a little more free with his time, he would have been one of those men who traveled abroad just to try the cuisine, ate three courses at every meal, and hired a private chef (and then battled with the chef for time in the kitchen). He should have ended up spending half of his life eating—and he would have been very happy with that life.

But he'd never had that chance.

So he was making up for lost time in Hell.

He filled up his plate once, cleared it, filled it again with the things he hadn't been able to squeeze on around round one's generous portions, filled it a third time with only his favorites from the first two rounds, drank far too generously from the various selections of booze, and even nibbled at a few of the less sickeningly sweet-looking dessert offerings.

The crowd of guests abruptly thinned out after his arrival, but those that remained adjusted to the fact that the Radio Demon was in their midst and returned to their partying while quietly steered around him like a school of fish leaving wide berth around a passing shark. Some worked up the nerve to approach him. He marked a few of them as potential targets to make deals with later. One of them was a part of the gang that was throwing this little fundraiser; the gang was worried about dealing with a larger gang trying to move in on their turf, hence their eagerness to get an angelic weapon. Even with that, they were worried about their odds. The Radio Demon would be happy to throw his weight behind their cause... for a fee.

He didn't leave the potluck until he'd eaten so much it was hard to breathe and he was worried he might burst a button on his new shirt. When he did leave, taking his pot with him (which had been _very_ well received; it was nearly empty, compared to the half untouched mashed potatoes sitting next door), he headed to a nearby park, found a bench, sat with his head back and his elbows on the back of the bench, and enjoyed the weather and the tight pressure of being fuller than he'd ever had the opportunity to be in life—without the guilty feeling that he was wasting precious time on an indolent luxury, without the worry that eating like this today might mean not eating tomorrow.

The only downside was that he was going to have to get new clothes again soon.

###

Using his fantastic postmortem powers—calling upon supernatural spirits and spooks, opening rifts between realms, melting in and out of shadows, conjuring and banishing illusory sights and sounds—never stopped being draining. That was, Alastor supposed, simply how those powers worked. He was permitted to have spectacular superpowers, but an unrepentant sinner like him wasn't going to be able to use them without it taking up something of himself.

That was fine. All it really meant was that if Alastor summoned up a costume change for a dance number, he was going to need a snack; and if he decided to crush a city block, he'd better know which restaurants were going to be outside of the blast radius so he could plop himself into the first chair by the door and order the three heartiest entrees on their menu.

Which, as far as he was concerned, was a win-win. Do anything he wanted with no restraint, and then have a perfect excuse for a feast.

Alastor wondered sometimes at Hell's idea of punishments, because aside from the abominable weather and the sorry state of public transit, everything Hell had ever done to him felt like a massive improvement over where he'd been when he was alive.

###

"Aren't you the Radio Demon?"

The way Alastor was asked had changed so much over the past few years—because the way people looked at him had changed so much.

It was almost always asked with fear. That much was consistent.

When he'd first arrived, he had inspired the fear of a mortal on a foggy night crossing paths with a ghost or a vampire—the fear of encountering something gaunt and gray and unliving, the fear inspired by clean bones or the papery face of a mummy. The fear of watching a scarecrow move. There was something uncanny and unnatural in watching something as slender as a knife walking along on long teetering legs just like a human.

Within a few years, he'd been asked with the trepidation of someone who suspects their harmless-looking neighbor of being a serial killer. As his health and weight had returned, for a while, Alastor had looked extremely average. Sure, he was tall, but as far as _tall_ demons went he was a _short_ tall demon; sure, he had those claws and fangs, but so did half of the population; and three-inch antlers weren't what anybody would call intimidating. He didn't look much like the drawing of a skeletal monster on the "Beware the Radio Demon" posters littering the streets of Pentagram City. He was terrifying in a new way, terrifying specifically because he looked just like any other sinner.

And now, the fear of the two music venue managers currently looking up at him was a far more corporeal fear. The kind experienced by scrawny little nerds looking up at somebody who can flatten them with a swing of one arm.

There was intimidation in size, Alastor had learned. People got nervous when someone with a hundred pounds on them cornered them and showed off a smile full of daggers. Hell only knows he's plenty intimidating enough with magic alone—and he'd never enjoyed committing his violence with his own body when he had far more spectacular weapons at his beck and call, so it wasn't like he intended to fulfill these implied physical threats—but Alastor had _always_ gotten a thrill out of terrifying others, and he' wasn't going to turn down this new avenue to induce fear just because it was superfluous.

Besides, it felt _good_.

So he smiled a little wider and said, "I couldn't help noticing that your little business here is struggling! Which is quite a shame! I do so appreciate the fine entertainment that comes out of your establishment here. I'd hate to see you go under." He gestured at the managers' desk, inviting them to sit.

It only had one chair behind it—apparently, usually only one of them was in the office at a time—so one scrambled for the seat and the other huddled uncomfortably nearby. "That—that's—very kind of you—your concern—but you have nothing to worry about, sir," the seated manager stammered. "Business is going fine—we have live shows almost every night of the week—"

"Oh, I know, _delightful_ diversions," Alastor cut in, "but I'm not talking about your musical acts. I'm talking about that covert assassination business you're running, the one that keeps taking on truly _stupid_ jobs. _You_ know"—he slightly deepened his voice, like he was pretending to talk at a lower volume—"the one that's currently got a couple of overlords after it?"

The managers went stock still.

"Quite a bungling little outfit you've got here. The highlight of my morning is reading about their escapades!" He pulled up a chair to the desk, seated himself—it was a small chair, just a little too small for a man his size, the armrests pressing into his waist, the seat not quite wide enough to support his thighs, the legs creaking as he settled into place—and gave the two managers his sweetest, fangiest smile. "And I would hate for a couple of arrogant so-and-so's who can't handle a little competition from a local business to mow you down!"

 _Yes_ , god yes, this felt good—not just knowing that people give him more respect sheerly due to the size and shape of him, not just seeing the way traffic flows differently around him to accommodate his size and his danger level—but his _shape itself_ , completely separate from how other people interact with him, _felt good_.

He hadn't felt solid since he was a child.

He had never felt quite real.

Something about himself had always felt insubstantial, spirit-like; he suspected it was the reason why his mother had been saying he had a knack with spirits since before he could read; he suspected it was also the reason he'd always felt more at home on the airwaves than in his own body.

Now, he could feel his thighs against each other when he walks, his arms against his sides when he gestures, his stomach on his lap when he sits. He could feel his own mass when he moves. And for the first time, being inside his body was less like huddling in a cardboard box in a damp alley and more like inhabiting a house. He felt solid. He felt real. (He felt warm on overcast days without having to wear a coat, and frankly he hadn't known that was an option—a nice bonus, if nothing else.) He felt like he took up space. He felt like he was _here_.

Alastor settled back in his chair, one ankle hooked over the opposite knee, hands laced over the dome of his stomach, exactly as comfortable to be where he was as the two sinners in front of him were _uncomfortable_ to be speaking to one of the most dangerous men in Hell. "So why don't we three talk about what _I_ can do for _you_ to keep help keep you in business?"

**Author's Note:**

> Notes!!
> 
> \- I've been treading cautiously with directly introducing Voodoo into my characterization of Alastor, since 90% of the info out there is widely inaccurate Hollywood bullshit, and over half of the remaining 10% is mildly inaccurate New Age bullshit—and so this is the most directly I've brought it up in a fic so far, even though it's only a few passing comments.
> 
> There are a few things that matter a lot to me in how I include Voodoo in Alastor's backstory, most particularly:  
> \- in no way is it going to be associated with his evil (because Voodoo ain't evil but 99% of its usage in media treats it like it is);  
> \- in no way is it going to be associated with his magic (because Voodoo is a religion, not a system of magic);  
> \- and in no way is it going to be associated with cannibalism (because Voodoo doesn't do cannibalism what the fuck).  
> The last time I wrote a fic suggesting Alastor got the majority of his power from demons I got confused comments pointing out, hey, he does Voodoo, shouldn't he have gotten his power from there? To which the answer is: no, because that's not what Voodoo does; whereas every demonology text since demonology was invented says that demons can give you irresponsibly dangerous magical powers. The decision to make Voodoo something unambiguously positive in Alastor's life that he left behind and lost by mucking around with murder and demons is a deliberate writing choice.
> 
> \- I wrote Alastor as not getting into cannibalism until he was dead because Vivzie said so in a stream. Most people are surprised by this factoid, so I thought it was worth making a note on: yeah that's actually been given as canon. (Incidentally, it's also been given as canon that Alastor isn't an overlord. He's powerful enough to be one, but "overlord" is a political title, not a power ranking, and Alastor isn't interested in entering that political game so he's not an overlord. If you didn't know, now you do! Go forth and incorporate this info in your own fics.)
> 
> Posts for this fic available on [tumblr](https://ckret2.tumblr.com/post/629831060641955840/gluttony-as-a-form-of-self-care) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/ckret2/status/1307862637485658112?s=20). If you enjoyed the fic, comments/reblogs there are highly appreciated (as are comments here)!


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